


love, the sun and other things i'm over (except i'm not)

by floresetcorvi (sunbound)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, nothing else, oh look it's me and my gigantic titles, they go on a date, yearning a lot of yearning cause i'm gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:07:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21625432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbound/pseuds/floresetcorvi
Summary: “Sorry,” he says. “I’m late.”Enjolras makes a dismissive gesture. “You’re only five minutes late.” But he is late. He made Enjolras wait for five minutes. Maybe this would be the last straw and he would finally realise the fuck up that Grantaire is. Maybe he’ll finally get annoyed and leave. He’ll realise he’s just wasting time with him and— “Let’s go,” he says and nods towards the Louvre.Right. The Louvre. The not-date. Enjolras.“Yeah,” Grantaire replies weakly.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 194





	love, the sun and other things i'm over (except i'm not)

He fidgets with his hands; not that it's something unusual—not for him, it isn't. Grantaire knows how much his hands always shake, how he twists his fingers around each other, how many times he cracks his knuckles just to have something to do with his hands. Not unusual, just an old habit he never tried to break.

However, everything else about that situation is unusual.

It's unusual that he spends more than ten minutes standing in front of his wardrobe, beads of water running down his hair and onto his face as he tries to choose something remotely nice or that isn't stained or both. It's unusual that he changed his outfit at least three times before giving up and running a hand through his hair, just to be reminded that he needs to dry it.

It's unusual that he runs to Éponine’s apartment to ask for her hairdryer, ignoring her arched brow, and that he runs back to his, three stories downstairs. It's ungodly, really, the amount of times he checks how much time he has left (around forty minutes before he has to go). Everything about it is unusual and Grantaire doesn't know what to do as he stares at the hair dryer, his fingers quivering as if they were their own being and not extensions of his body. 

Shit, he's not sure he ever used a hair dryer before out of free will. 

He drops his head and watches the droplets of water falling on the rug. It can't be this hard, right? So he grabs the hairdryer and allows hot air to be blown on his scalp, welcomes it when it burns because it's a distraction. One that ends too soon, and Grantaire is left with trying to pick an outfit once again.

For his date. With Enjolras. _It's not a date,_ he censors himself because, honestly, it isn't. It can't be. It's just two friends hanging out at a museum because one of them is a fucking philistine who hasn’t stepped inside the Louvre ever since he was ten years old. Not a date, just a learning experience.

He smiles at the thought of that, _friends._ It feels like a dream, to think he and Enjolras are something close to friends. It makes him greedy and Grantaire closes his eyes, reminding himself that he already has a lot more than what he was supposed to have in the first place.

He knows it's enough most of the time. It's enough when he gets a reaction out of Enjolras that isn't angry snarls and annoyed glares. It's enough to hear him laugh at _his_ jokes. It’s enough when he gets to see Enjolras from so close, his radiant smile and golden curls. It’s enough, Grantaire tells himself more often than not, so why does he always crave even more?

He sighs and goes back to stand in front of his wardrobe.

Ten minutes later and Grantaire has to hold back his laughter as he side-glances himself in the mirror. It’s the most Grantaire thing he could’ve picked: moss-green shirt and black jeans and his worn out shoes. It’s what he wears every other day.

Maybe it’s better like this, he thinks, so Enjolras won’t know the pile of nerves he is just because of the mere thought of a date. _It’s not a date._ But it feels like it, doesn’t it? Just the two of them going out to look at art. Most people would consider it a date. Except that they’re not most people. Except that Grantaire never built up the courage to actually ask. As a matter of fact, this not-date was only happening because he threw it as a joke, and Enjolras didn’t notice—or pretended not to notice (Grantaire didn’t want to consider the latter because it made hope bubble inside of him. Dangerous thing, hope)—and accepted it.

He fucking accepted it and Grantaire wants to laugh hysterically until he passes out. “Why are you like this, man?” he asks his reflection as the thought crosses his mind. 

As fast as that thought came, it goes away, replaced by Enjolras and the not-date and art and Enjolras. It’s pathetic, he knows. Éponine tells him all the time that he’s being pathetic. He doesn’t even fight it anymore.

Being utterly in l—no, he doesn’t dare naming it. But feeling _whatever_ he feels towards Enjolras is as natural to him as everything else. His hair is unruly and stubborn, his eyes are blue, he has too many freckles, he feels things towards Enjolras, he can play the piano, he knows how to throw a punch. It’s just another piece of him. Grantaire already resigned to it long ago, not paying it as much thought as he used to. 

It feels organic, almost.

Pathetic. Ridiculous. Pitiful.

He groans and runs a hand over his face, then he hops the stair flights to Éponine’s apartment because what else does he have to do? “Where’s my hair dryer?” she says in lieu of a hello when she hears the door creaking open—he simply lets himself in; they’re way past the whole knocking thing. “Better yet,” she says, sticking her head from her bedroom door frame, “why the fuck did you _take_ my hair dryer?”

And it hits him that he hasn’t told anyone about his not-date with Enjolras. Grantaire kept it as a secret as if spelling it out would make it go away, as if it’d melt the dream into reality and he’d find himself back at their routine of banter and annoyed glares and sarcastic remarks. 

After everything, he can’t stand the thought.

“I’m, uh—” he scratches his head. “I’m going out,” which is not a lie.

“So? Since when do you blow dry your hair?”

He doesn’t and Éponine knows it because that’s how she is. She notices things, from the small ones to the obvious ones, and she keeps it with her. She collects information as one may collect stamps. It’s remarkable, really. “R,” Éponine calls and Grantaire doesn’t find it in himself to lie, can't force his brain to think of a little white lie, even though lying has been so easy to him lately, sliding over his tongue and out of his mouth with practiced skill.

“I have a date?” he offers. “Well, not a _date,_ date, but,” he pauses. “A date,” and Éponine is trying not to laugh, for which he’s thankful until he’s the one to burst out laughing. His hands shake and he buries his nails in his palms. “I just,” Grantaire gesticulates vaguely, “wanted to make an effort,” but everything he says sounds like a question.

Éponine squints at him. Then her mouth turns into a thin line and she squints some more. Because Éponine _knows_ the only person Grantaire would ever make an effort for is either Enjolras or his mother, in case she came visiting. And Éponine also knows that if it was Grantaire’s mother, he would’ve said something, which he didn’t, which can only mean Enjolras.

“Date?” she asks, nail polish brush hanging in the air.

“Not _date,_ date. Just,” he sighs. “He never went to the Louvre, and I’ve been to it countless times. Just thought of giving him a tour, that’s all,” but he knows she won’t buy it, even though she won’t push. She’s a blessing, really.

Éponine simply resumes painting her nails in some marsala tone, humming contently. It somehow soothes him. The comfortable silence he’s learned to appreciate, the soft humming, the smell of nail polish—it all put him at ease.

He remembers, then, that _no one_ knows _._

Maybe people at the Musain still think they despise each other. Well, they’ve thought that for so long, even though despise is the furthest thing Grantaire could ever have felt towards Enjolras. Ever since the first day, back in October, when he forgot his apartment keys and Jehan let him crash at their place because Éponine hasn’t moved to their building yet. Ever since that fateful day that he walked into a L’ABC meeting because Jehan was there and Grantaire needed to wait for them to take them both home.

Ever since then, Grantaire knows that despise is the last thing he can feel towards Enjolras. It’s impossible to despise him when Enjolras talks like that, grandiose, with eyes filled with determination and passion; when he gets so worked up that he’s _luminescent_ , voice roaring and fists clenched. Enjolras _believes_ —in the people, in justice, in France, even. 

And Grantaire believes in Enjolras, even when he tries his hardest to show otherwise.

Pissing him off, making snarky comments, doing a hell of an effort to counter Enjolras’ beliefs—those are all ways Grantaire found to keep his feelings inside. He knows that if he ever uttered one small word of admiration, he’d never be able to stop. Not when there’s so much to admire in Enjolras. If the list was already long at the beginning, it grew longer when they started to try to be civil to each other (Grantaire gave up the listing when they started to become whatever they are now).

He doesn’t want to call it friendship because his heart is one greedy bastard, who wants to bite more than it can chew. He doesn’t want to call it friendship, but acquaintances don’t spend that much time together out of free will, right? Acquaintances don’t spend afternoons commenting on movies they just watched, or trading books just to have something to talk about—the latter on him; Grantaire wouldn’t dare to think Enjolras would go out of his way just to have things to talk about with him. Acquaintances don’t work their way around their schedules just to find that half an hour of free time to spend together.

But Grantaire and hope are like a tragic romance from centuries ago. No matter how much he wants to hold her, it’s impossible. Hope always slips from his arms. When he starts to feel her settling in, Enjolras shifts in his seat and Grantaire is convinced it must mean he’s uncomfortable in his presence because, Hell, how could it be any different? And hope slips through his fingers.

And what can he say? He loves to love what he can’t have. There's poetry in tragedy, after all, and he's always been one braggart poet.

Grantaire reminds himself of it as he says goodbye to Éponine with a promise of texting if anything goes South. He reminds himself of it as he walks to the subway station. It settles on his chest as he grips the cold iron bar and look at the packed wagon. _Friends,_ he rolls that word around his mind like he does with every little thing Enjolras says to him—the good things and the bad things.

Pathetic. Ridiculous. Pitiful.

He knows and he stopped caring months ago.

Grantaire looks at the people—the little girl happily eating candy from a bag, the jacked dude with big headphones on, the woman typing on her phone, the teenager sleeping with their mouth open and head hanging back. He looks at them and he thinks how they’re all carrying on with their lives, hopping down at different stations, going to different places to do different things.

Sonder. It's terrifying, really.

He gets out of at Concorde station and looks up at the Obelisque thundering a few meters ahead. Grantaire is deeply aware that he could’ve simply gotten out at a closer station, but moving his legs, looking around, looking at people, focusing on the song in his earbuds—it all usually helps him to calm down, and he'll claw at every opportunity to calm down.

He turns at Rue Royale and walks. He’s not any calmer, so he turns at Rue Saint-Honoré. Then, at Rue d’Alger and his sides start to sting a bit from the unnecessarily fast walking around. He can see the trees of the Terrasse des Feuillant from where he stands. All that walking around to end up at Rue de Rivoli much sooner than he intended. _I can go around the block,_ he thinks, but it’s a long avenue and his feet are already complaining. After twenty minutes since he walked out of the subway, he’s almost late and tired and cursing at himself because he knows Enjolras will already be there.

As in a cue, his phone chimes. 

**social justice cherub [11:28]:** I’m here.

 _of course you are,_ he types. _i’m almost there. got stuck in traffic,_ which is a blatant lie because he rode the subway and made dumb decisions to get there, no traffic involved.

 **social justice cherub [11:28]:** I’m early anyway.

Grantaire resists the urge to highlight that Enjolras is only two minutes early and pockets his phone as he catches a glimpse of the pyramid and of Enjolras with his golden curls and ever-present frown. Like a moth to the fire, Grantaire’s eyes are pulled towards him, no matter how crowded the place.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m late.”

Enjolras makes a dismissive gesture. “You’re only five minutes late.” But he _is_ late. He made Enjolras wait for five minutes. Maybe this would be the last straw and he would finally realise the fuck up that Grantaire is. Maybe he’ll finally get annoyed and leave. He’ll realise he’s just wasting time with him and— “Let’s go,” he says and nods towards the Louvre.

Right. The Louvre. The not-date. Enjolras.

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies weakly. He’s the one who sort-of-asked Enjolras to come with him to look at art. “But not through there,” he gives a small smile. There’s already a line forming even though it's the middle of March and there aren’t many tourists.

He’s nervous, his hands shake, he’s overly aware of Enjolras presence beside him, warm and unsettling. He clenches and unclenches his fists. _Breathe,_ Grantaire reminds himself. _Breathe._

“Through where, then?”

“Follow me,” and it’s silly how it feels like some sort of secret mission, when it’s actually just going through the Carrousel. The entrance there is usually less busy than the pyramid. It’s nice there, the marble and the upside-down-pyramid, at which there’s someone taking a pic with their hand between the tips. 

“I like the upstairs entrance better,” Enjolras comments and Grantaire snorts.

“Of course you do,” because of course Enjolras wouldn’t like the entrance through a shopping mall, with an Apple Store standing just across the _Musée du Louvre_ written in gold, capital letters. “But this is quicker.”

They walk past security after being scanned and checked just in case they ever planned to steal the Mona Lisa, or any other piece, and Enjolras walks straight to the ticket-buying-area. “Uh,” Grantaire calls. “What are you doing?”

“Buying my ticket,” he offers.

“Why?” and it hits him that, perhaps, Enjolras doesn’t know that he doesn't have to pay. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you were actually going to pay,” and he laughs.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because unless you lied to me about being twenty-three and French, you don’t have to,” but he doesn’t seem to be nowhere close to understanding Grantaire. “Haven’t you read the website? Or anything? Europeans under twenty-six don’t pay,” he explains and Enjolras mouth forms a tiny O. “All you need is an ID card.”

Once they’re inside the lobby that has the arches leading to the Richelieu, Sully and Denon sections, Grantaire sighs. “All right, listen up, philistine,” and Enjolras laughs at that, eyes closed and almost snorting. “Where do you wanna go first?” 

He shrugs. “I’m the philistine, remember? You’re the enlightened being who’ll show me to reason,” he mocks. Enjolras being capable of sarcasm is one little information Grantaire keeps with all the fondness and care his heart can muster. 

“Well,” he starts. “This place is, you know, huge. And of course we’re not seeing everything today,” statement to which Enjolras sort of _pouts,_ and it’s ridiculous how Grantaire feels about it. “So, we need a plan. I say we do it chronologically,” he suggests. “I mean, there are two kinds of tour we can do: the sprinting-through-and-seeing-some-stuff tour or the Grantaire tour, that is basically me taking you to my favourite pieces.”

And there’s a small curl tugging at the corner of Enjolras’ lips. It’s beautiful and adorable and disconcerting all at once, so Grantaire looks at the banners hanging near each entrance, reading and rereading the titles. “Give me the Grantaire tour, then,” Enjolras says and he tries to keep himself from beaming.

Enjolras is asking him to show his favourite pieces, to ramble about paintings and sculptures and art. It warms his heart and it sets it racing at an ungodly speed. It gives him hope and it’s dangerous. _Friends,_ he reminds himself. _Just friends,_ but Enjolras looks at him with those blue eyes of his and Grantaire wants to drown in them, to be reduced to ashes by their fire, to curl up inside those blue pools and live there.

 _Stop_ _,_ he tells himself.

“Then, follow me, dear philistine friend.” He tries hard not to think about how the _friend_ part came out tentatively, almost as if inviting Enjolras to deny it, to call him absurd, to say they’re not friends. But Enjolras nods and they make their way towards the Richelieu section. “Okay, now,” he says as they walk past some sculptures, “this is something everyone has to experience.”

Because it’s true. The first time he went there and walked to the open space, sunlight washing over the statues. The windows and the sculptures in white and green, those two decorative trees, the arches, the people walking around, studying the details, taking pics, admiring—it’s overwhelming. It’s beautiful and he doesn’t have the words to explain it, so he simply takes Enjolras there.

And it pays off when Grantaire sees him agape for a brief moment, eyes widened just a bit. “Nice, huh?” he nudges him with his elbow, and stops to admire it himself. No matter how many times he comes to the Louvre, he always loves to start by the Richelieu section just to see it over and over again. Hope sparks up again when he sees that Enjolras enjoyed it, too. 

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes scanning everything, grasping details. There’s this little crease between his brows that Grantaire has come to know as the Deep In Thoughts crease. He looks away. “It’s beautiful,” Enjolras says before taking his eyes from the pieces.

“Okay, then let’s get going.”

He wants to hold Enjolras’ arm and take him around. He wants just that one string, that one point of human contact. He wants it so much so often that he simply welcomes his desires as an old friend, but there are moments like these, when Enjolras is so near it’s nauseating, that it’s hard to do so. 

He wants so much as to just brush his fingers against Enjolras’ wrist, and he knows he can make it seem like an accident, but he doesn’t, shoving his hands down his pockets and nodding towards the staircase by their left.

And Grantaire takes him around. First, through the statues at the Richelieu, walking among those sculpted beauties, standing as austere as the gods themselves. He loves to walk among them, quickly glancing at them as he moves. His eyes shuffles towards Enjolras to register the mesmerised look on his face, storing it in the warm corner of his heart destined for him and him only.

Grantaire takes him to statues, talking both about techniques and the art itself, and Enjolras adds random historical facts about either the period or the figure—sometimes, even about the artist. Grantaire’s heart leaps inside his chest whenever it happens. He talks about sculpting because he took some classes at college, he talks about the different materials, how they feel under the touch, how hard or fairly simpler they are to work with. 

He talks and talks and Enjolras listens so intently Grantaire starts to think he’ll pull a notebook and take notes. He smiles fondly at the thought because he knows for a fact that Enjolras sticks his tongue between his lips when he’s writing. He knows how the boy looks in glasses, part of his hair held back by a hair clip, the tip of his tongue sticking out and it’s beautiful.

Grantaire talks some more, pointing at crooks of neck or slumps of shoulders, at creases of fabric and stretch of fingers—he talks about them and Enjolras listens and Grantaire hasn’t felt such peace in a very long time. It’s only temporary, he knows, but he’ll cherish it.

They go past the Romans antiquities and walk to see the _Winged Victory of Samothrace_ standing on top of the staircase, beautifully presented to the visitors, the skylight dome illuminating it. People are already packing the steps, taking pictures. Grantaire stays back, leaning against the wall as he sees Enjolras admiring it, too, his mouth agape, his eyes focused.

When he draws his phone from his pockets, it’s not to snap a picture of the statue thundering above them in her kingdom of marble. If he smiles fondly at the newly taken picture, it’s for no one to know. If he thinks of saving it as his homescreen wallpaper, it’s even a deeper secret.

They go upstairs, taking a closer look at the statue and, to their right, is written in golden letters: _peintures italiennes._ “Ready to see _her?”_ but Enjolras is still looking at the _Winged Victory._ “Mona Lisa? La Joconde?” he offers.

“Yeah, yeah.”

And they do so. They walk past paintings with saints and other catholic images. They stop to admire the beautiful ceiling, entailed with figures he can’t even begin to name. They walk through the corridor, looking at paintings with vibrant colours, until they stop at the statue of Artemis and turn right.

There, they see _The Wedding at Cana_ with its six meters tall. Grantaire loves the mixture of colours on people's clothes—pink, green, red, orange. Across from it, there she is, the Mona Lisa.

Maybe it’s because he has seen so many representations of it, but he was never crazy about it. It’s a great painting, but there’s a lack of a wow-factor for him. He glances at Enjolras, who’s clearly annoyed by the amount of people crowding in front of it. “What do you think of it?”

“It’s nice,” he offers, shrugging. “But, I don’t know, it kinda gets old when you’ve seen it many times before.”

Grantaire smiles.

They carry on with their tour, Enjolras sometimes complaining about the opulence of the place and how it used to be a palace, which means it’s such a neglect to the people, who were starving. Grantaire’s smile widens even further. 

After getting into the paintings, his rambling gets harder to contain. It’s not that he doesn’t like the sculptures, he does; but painting is what _he_ does. He’s familiar with the brush strokes, the paint, the colours. He knows the movement of drawing as he knows the back of his hand or the face of the boy beside him.

He automatically thinks about his sketchbooks, which many pages are filled with drawings of pieces of Enjolras. His hands, his lips, his nose, his hair—God, he’s drawn his golden curls so many times it’s bordering the embarrassing. And there are also the drawings _of_ Enjolras—sitting, talking at a meeting, giving a speech at a rally, driving.

There’s this piece Grantaire thinks he’ll throw himself off a cliff before ever letting Enjolras consider its existence. He’s convinced he never spent so much time on a piece as he has with this one; not even his college projects have half the effort. It’s half a painting, half a collage. The background made of newspapers pages glued to the canvas, those that usually makes Grantaire loses faith in people—a immigrant was beaten, another LGBTQIA+ murdered, suicide reports, and so many other things. In front of all of this, there’s Enjolras, outlined by golden, glittery paint—it’s him, always him. In front of so much despair, there’s Enjolras, wearing his faith and his red hoodie. In front of words such as _murder_ and _violence_ , there’s Enjolras. His eyes are bandaged by red paint onto which Grantaire scratched the words: _l’amoureux de marble de la Liberté_.

He’s as proud of this piece as he can be proud of anything he creates. It’s hidden in his bedroom, lying against the wall near the wardrobe, covered by a blanket. In the mess of his room, it can hardly seem alien or out of place. Grantaire thinks of it as he guides Enjolras through the corridors, walking past walls covered in paintings. He stops in front of some, talks about them, admires them himself. 

Enjolras can’t help but gap at _The Coronation of Napoleon_ . No matter how much he despises the event, it _is_ a six meters tall painting. He grumbles about Napoleon, but his eyes are carefully examining the details. “You know,” Grantaire says because he’s full of useless trivia. “That lady,” and he points at where Napoleon mother was supposed to be, “is actually the painter’s mother because Napoleon’s mother didn’t go to the coronation.”

“Really?” And it feels so strange that he can know more about a subject than Enjolras, but he nods. “He was such a pretentious bastard,” he grumbles. “Look at him, placing the _crown_ on himself. There shouldn’t even _be_ a crown.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. The immediate failure of French Revolution breaks your heart,” he jokes. “But, you know, it _was_ a bourgeois revolution. And you know the rich, they’re hypocrites. They never cared about making the world a better place. They just wanted to be as important as the nobles.”

“It wasn’t just like that,” Enjolras counters in a small voice.

“But _look_ at them, contently sitting through something that was a monarchist ritual, wearing their clothes and imitating the nobles, and they _don’t care_ because now they’re the ones sitting there. They’re content as long as they have the power.”

A few steps down from _The Coronation of Napoleon,_ there’s _Liberty Leading the People_. Enjolras looks and looks and looks some more. “I know this one,” he says.

“I think it’s a bit tragic,” he shrugs. “We know how it ended. We just came from there,” he nodded towards where they walked from.

“I think it has its heroism.”

“Of course it has! I’m not being ironic,” Grantaire answers to Enjolras’ glare. “It is heroic. It was painted to be heroic. The city in the background, the blue sky behind those clouds of dust, the people raising their swords and guns and fists—it _is_ heroic. I think it’s interesting how there’s a revolutionary and a soldier lying dead next to each other,” he points at the two corpses at the bottom right of the painting. “Also, how everyone’s looking forward, as if they’re looking to the future, except for a few people, like the kid, who’s looking at us, and this guy with the colours of France, and this little fellow who looks more eager to steal from the corpses than anything else, but,” he shrugs. “It’s nice. Hopeful, even.”

When he takes his eyes away from the painting, Enjolras is looking at him with this inscrutable look on his face. It’s unbearable, so Grantaire looks away. His eyes rest on a painting of Napoleon riding a horse, surrounded by snow, and he makes a joke about invading Russia in the winter. 

“But, you know,” he calls, still caught up in the _Liberty Leading the People,_ “people always use it to illustrate the French Revolution, but it's actually about the Revolution of 1830. It always makes me think about how much we can interpret art in whatever way we want as long as we take it out of its production context.”

“Elaborate on that,” and it's a small joke they have between them, one born out of the meme God Is Gay, except Grantaire could never say no to Enjolras.

“Like, all I've said about it, it's valid and shit because it's how _I_ see that painting, how _I_ understood it before learning it has never been about the French Revolution. It's about a revolution made to restore the monarchy, starting the Monarchy of July and shit. Hardly about the people or liberty in the way we want it to be,” he shrugs. “But does it matter? Does it _really_ matter what the artist originally meant if it's so far from its production context? Can you say I'm wrong for understanding it like that?”

Enjolras hums and considers, probably thinking of something to say.

“Yeah, I get that, but sometimes context is important. Like, if we take an art made by a Futurist, for instance, out of context and just interpret it however we like, we can be praising fascist art, and that's fucked,” Enjolras cursing is also an information Grantaire stores lovingly in the back of his brain. “It's kinda like saying that the artist’s intentions don't matter, or that we have to separate art from artists, which is something I don't think it's possible.”

“Okay, fair enough.”

“It's not that what you said about it being heroic and hopeful is wrong because it isn't, but it's heroic and hopeful for other reasons.”

“And what do we do when we don't know anything about context or who the artist is?”

“We can't know everything about everyone, so maybe it's the museums’ responsibility to keep fascist art away.”

“But like, for Futurist art, Futurism was one of the first Modernist vanguards, it _was_ important despite it. I think museums should just give us context, tell us who the artist was and stuff like that. We can't just say ‘Keep fascist art away’ because it keeps people from learning what they were and their elements, which makes fascism overall harder to identify,” he shrugs. “Art is a very important weapon, Apollo,” he says with fake gravity, even if he thinks it's true.

“I know it is. I didn't mean it isn't—”

“Chill, Apollo. I know you didn't,” he offers a smile as a truce, and Enjolras accepts it. Grantaire knows they'll pick the conversation up again eventually, but for now they walk some more, looking at paintings, commenting; Grantaire jokes sometimes. Some other times, he gives useful information. Enjolras listens and laughs and hums.

It’s enough, it’s enough. Grantaire tells himself that it’s enough. It _has_ to be enough because that’s the closest to a date with Enjolras he’ll ever have. Because he’ll never _have_ Enjolras, no matter how much he wishes for it. He’s aware of it; he’s over it, too. Since Grantaire found out he wouldn’t be over Enjolras, he decided he’d be over trying to be over it.

The truth is he's not over Enjolras because that's as impossible to him as it is breathing in space. He can't do that. Deciding to try to be over trying to be over him was the closest to peace he could muster.

And that’s when it became natural to him, to be in love. Like naming a stray dog you can't keep, Grantaire doesn't want to name his feelings because he doesn't want to grow even more attached to them. He doesn't want to call it love, even though he _knows_ that his feelings are light-years away from sheer admiration. His feelings have their own shape, now, and he’s okay with it. They take their own decisions, making his heart leap and clench and _want,_ and Grantaire doesn’t try to stop them.

There’s familiarity in being in love with Enjolras. He’s known these feelings for the past year, and he’s fond of them, even, liking to know he's capable of such a tender act. He’s used to the idea of being in love, but there are moments like these where he can’t help but wish things weren’t like they were.

Because Grantaire is all trembling hands and loose morals and frayed voice. He’s skeptical and cynical because he’s terrified of being hopeful. He’s confusing and complicated and hard to love. Grantaire is all shaky fingers trying to reach out for the burning sun, and lonely night walks, and curling up on his bed wishing for things he can’t ever have. Grantaire is all craving the familiarity of alcohol, the sound of glass shattering, the cold marble hallways of the Louvre.

And there’s Enjolras. Enjolras is faith and determination. He is a forest fire and a marching band all at once. Enjolras is steady and warm and _sure._ There’s Enjolras, who’s so easy to love, who so easily drew Grantaire towards him, who effortlessly turned Grantaire into his own personal satellite without even intending to.

The moon can only love the sun from afar. The moon can only reflect the sun’s light because it doesn’t have its own. All of Grantaire’s attempts to greatness, they’re only possible because Enjolras exists. If it’s not for him, who will Grantaire paint? Who will Grantaire admire and love?

Nothing. No one.

He _needs_ Enjolras, and it’s pathetic and ridiculous and pitiful, and he can’t help but wonder how does he look at him. He looks at Enjolras as the hungry look at a mouthful of bread: as if that small thing is the beginning and the ending of their lives.

Because it’s true. Before Enjolras, Grantaire didn’t have the will or inspiration to draw anything, and now he can’t imagine his days without grabbing a pencil and doodling—a bird, a flower, his friends. Before Enjolras, Grantaire’s life was a blur of bottles and fights and nothingness. And he hates it. He hates it that he looks at Enjolras as if he was his saviour because, fuck, that’s so stupid. Grantaire hasn’t been saved from the claws of depression and anxiety by a blond prince.

But the grip loosened a bit and Enjolras did spark something inside of him. Something he took for dead long ago; something that was either dormant or rotting, he doesn’t know for sure, he doesn’t know if it matters.

As if Grantaire was a stray piece of rock, wandering purposelessly in the space, that finally entered the orbit of a planet, he’s now going down too fast to be stopped. He’s burning and descending, pulled towards the surface, covered in flames, and he is going to crash. Grantaire knows it. He knows he’s going to crash eventually and the damage will be too great to be overlooked. He knows it and he hates it, so he avoids it. _I don’t care. As long as I get one more day, I don’t care._

Pathetic. Ridiculous. Pitiful.

But how can he be anything else when Enjolras is beside him? In moments like these, Grantaire doesn’t mind being a sidekick; he doesn’t mind that his name is simply a sequel to Enjolras’ own. He doesn’t mind being the Patroclus to an Achilles, the Pylades to an Orestes, as long as he gets to be the Grantaire to an Enjolras.

He doesn’t care because as long as he can witness Enjolras’ in all his glory and grandeur, it’s enough for him.

He looks at Enjolras and can’t help but wonder: _does he see me for what I am? Does he know I’m so desperate? Can he see the fear and the need and the love in my eyes?_ Grantaire is afraid to know for sure. There’s comfort in doubt, and he will cradle it for as long as he can. He’ll stretch his uncertainty for a day into a week, a month, into however much longer the Universe allows him to, and it’s enough.

Or so he tells himself.

“R?” he hears Enjolras calling him, and Grantaire will always love how his nickname sounds wrapped by Enjolras voice. “Thank you,” and he’s smiling. It’s fond and warm and Grantaire is gone. “It was very nice,” he says and Grantaire tries to smile back.

“Anytime, man,” he answers as if it’s no big deal, but his hands are sweaty and shaking, and his heart is thumping, blood pumping loudly against his ears. “I can be your official guide in the Louvre,” he jokes, and the idea of being Enjolras’ anything sets his heart in a brand new race.

“Yeah,” his voice is light and smooth like silk. “I’d love that.”

“Well,” Grantaire bows theatrically, “I’m at your service.”

There’s a brief pause, a silence between them filled with thumping hearts and people’s voice. A silence that is one moment too long to be comfortable. “Are you free next week, then?” Enjolras asks, almost tentatively and Grantaire’s world is spinning.

“I have to check my schedule,” he jokes and Enjolras clicks his tongue as he rolls his eyes playfully. “What? Are you so eager to learn about art?”

“Today was nice. I liked it,” he shrugs and Grantaire has to tell himself with all the words he knows that it means nothing, has to keep those words from his heart’s greedy hands. 

“Well, I’m free as a bird next week,” he says and Enjolras face lights up. Grantaire doesn’t know for sure when it burned out, in the first place. He never thought it to be possible for Enjolras to be unsure. “Same time, then?”

There’s a heartbeat. Another one. “Yeah, sure.”

And it feels like stalling because they've been outside the Louvre for the past ten minutes. They could’ve easily said their goodbyes with the classic ‘see you tomorrow’ because they _are_ seeing each other tomorrow at the Musain. They could’ve easily gone their own ways, but there they are. “Are you hungry?” Grantaire offers because he doesn’t want this not-date to end just yet.

 _“Yes,”_ Enjolras breathes out, a smile resting comfortably on his lips. “It’s been hours since I ate.”

“Then, let’s grab something.”

The Louvre watches the two boys withdrawing, their bodies much closer together than when they first stepped inside. Grantaire tentatively brushes their fingers, and he kindly registers it when Enjolras doesn’t flinch or move away. He also feels his heart sink and flutter and float when he feels a finger brushing against his in return, thirty seconds later.

He smiles and Enjolras is smiling, too.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed it!!
> 
> i was really shocked when i learned that _liberty leading the people_ isn't actually about the french revolution kasajsk and the whole conversation that happened after it was completely unprompted i just wrote it while i was editing this fic ksjdksd 
> 
> this was actually a thing i wrote for my friend's bday last year and i've been mulling it over my head whether i should post it or not, and i decided to because i like having my writing here on ao3. all info regarding paris/the louvre i've gotten from the internet cause i ain't have ever set foot in france.
> 
> thank you for reading. thanks, vic, for being a great friend and for allowing me to post it (and for giving me an excuse to write this thing).
> 
> please drop by to tell me what you've thought about this. and i might or might not turn this into a series one day bc i actually have many things abt this modern au in my head (this whole thing has a [pinterest board](https://br.pinterest.com/floresetcorvi/b-les-amis-de-labc/))!! i'm also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/moonboundjuni) and on [tumblr](https://floresetcorvi.co.vu/).


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